Upon the Earth . . .
by Vatrixsta Cruden
Summary: A hot dog on a stick changes everything.


Title: Upon the Earth and Upon the Wind and Upon the Water  
  
Author: Vatrixsta Cruden  
  
Email: trixieangelsomething@hotmail.com  
  
Classification: Fluff, Angst, Romance, Future Fic -- B/A, B/S, A/Fr  
  
Rating: PG-13   
  
Archive: Everyone who has something of mine, you can have  
this if you really want it. Everyone else, just drop me a  
note. I swear I'll say yes.   
  
Disclaimer: Me no own. Og own.  
  
Thanks: to Lisa, Serena, Dru and Kaz -- you guys really do  
cover my ass beautifully, and I'm more grateful than you  
know.  
  
Spoilers: Oh, let's say the whole freakin' canon, shall we?  
y'know, in a vague way.  
  
Author's Notes: Pablo Neruda is responsible for the World's  
Longest Title (tm) as well as the verse herein. I've had  
this story half finished on my hard drive for months, (it  
was actually intended to be an answer to the challenge  
posted to Sunlight & Shadow ages ago, but I completely  
missed the deadline ) and the latest influx of angst  
(Thank you Margot and Ducks) pushed me over the edge I'd  
been balancing on, thus requiring massive amounts of fluff.  
Although one out of four beta readers cried just so you  
know.  
  
Summary: Angel's human. Instant B/A reunion, right? Not so  
fast, my eager reader . . .  
  
~  
  
When I cannot look at your face  
I look at your feet.  
Your feet of arched bone,  
your hard little feet.  
I know that they support you,  
and that your sweet weight  
rises upon them  
  
~  
  
Funny, how if she hadn't NEEDED that hot dog on a stick, she  
would have missed him by a few minutes.  
  
She already misses him, of course. That's hardly the point.  
She misses him with every breath she takes, because taking  
breath reminds her of him now. In fact, she's more grateful  
for every breath that she takes now because of how grateful  
she is for every breath that he takes. Given the correlation  
she's drawn between breathing and him, it really isn't all  
that surprising that she thinks of him so much.  
  
But that's all irrelevant to what is happening here. Running  
into him. Literally, because here he is, coming out of the  
building she's going into.  
  
"Hi."  
  
"Hi."  
  
Lame. Of course, they don't say each others' names. Saying  
each other's names always leads them to places they can't  
face going. She has never quite understood why they couldn't  
face them.  
  
"How are you?"  
  
His voice is impassive and polite, inquiring about the  
health of someone who was once at the very center of his  
universe.  
  
"Good. I'm good. And you? You look well."  
  
She has never been so polite. It's Giles' influence. Having  
a very proper English gentleman for a father since her  
sixteenth birthday had to have an effect on her sooner or  
later. With the maturity of true adulthood, the cursed  
thirtieth birthday looming on the horizon (three years away  
still, but it looms nonetheless), Buffy has finally learned  
how to act like everyone expects her to.  
  
"I am well," he answers, and while she's glad for him,  
another part of her, the same part that secretly wishes she  
were unable to view him in the harsh light of day, screams  
in agony and rage that he has been able to flourish without  
her.  
  
There is no cause for such thoughts. She does not pine for  
him every day. Her life has gone on. Once, when they were  
forced apart by circumstance, she had been unable to  
completely let go of him. Always, 'what if?' delusions  
drifted through her dreams. 'He's a vampire,' she would tell  
herself sternly. 'You're the Slayer. He left so you could  
have a life, not miss him so much you're in danger of dying  
from it.'  
  
The missing had stopped being such a constant ache after The  
Big Showdown. He'd been in a relationship, a woman whose  
name Buffy couldn't recall. She'd been pretty. Had seemed to  
truly care for Angel. Buffy herself had been with Spike. It  
hadn't been love on her side, and even now, she wondered if  
it had been on his. She likes to think so. It makes  
something inside of her happy to imagine loving her being  
enough to bring something akin to redemption to a soulless  
creature.  
  
They were not in love, but they were together. Buffy slept  
in Spike's bed, and he in hers. She never pretended the way  
she had with Riley. There was no reason to hide her strength  
or her darkness from Spike. He knew, he understood, and for  
a time, she found comfort in him. After Riley came back,  
after he learned she'd taken the solace in an evil demon  
she'd been unable to find with him, he'd left again, and  
that time, Buffy was sure he'd been able to stop loving her.  
  
That had made her happy as well. Riley loving her wasn't  
right. He got his clean break, and it lessened her guilt  
over hurting him when Xander got the invitation to Riley's  
wedding a couple of years later.  
  
So many moments, so many hurts, so many little wounds  
inflicted on the men who'd loved her.  
  
But she is losing herself in memories, and the living  
manifestation of her greatest joy and most heartfelt sorrow  
stands before her, and she only saw him in the sunlight one  
other time, for a few moments before he climbed into his big  
black car and left her again.  
  
"I never noticed the little blond highlights in his hair  
before," Willow had said to her when she finally worked up  
the courage to broach the subject.  
  
"I did," was all Buffy had said, and all talk of Angel and  
sunlight and redemption and 'why the hell aren't you guys  
together?' had been swept under a rug.  
  
Buffy notices everything about him now. The blond, the  
chocolate brown, the healthy glow. His skin is tanned and  
golden, and a small ache in her breast briefly wishes for  
cool, pale marble beneath her fingers. Then again, her  
fingers aren't touching him, which is good, because  
ex-lovers who haven't spoken in centuries aren't supposed to  
touch each other when they accidentally meet on the  
sidewalk.  
  
"So uh, what brings you to L.A.?" he asks, and she panics  
for a moment. Had she only come with the hopes of catching a  
glimpse of him? This was something she had attempted just  
after his transformation, when she'd recognized their  
stupidity. But no, she realizes, she has a viable excuse.  
This trip to her old home is not about him.  
  
"Work," she answers easily. "You know me. Nose. Grindstone."  
  
"Right." He smiles, and it's an easy, wondrous sight.  
  
"What brings you to this particular corner of the universe?"  
she asks, then mentally chastises herself. It is none of her  
business, even if he did start this line of questioning.  
  
But he answers "Work" in kind, and gives her another smile.  
  
They do not ask each other what 'work' is now. Such  
questions would prolong the meeting, and Buffy can feel his  
skin itching to be away from her as much as hers itches to  
be near him.  
  
"I guess I should let you go," he says, and begins to walk  
away.  
  
It is the sight of his back that spurs her into action.  
"Angel," she calls out, and he stops, and she swears,  
shivers a little. He turns back to her, walks the few steps  
he'd taken and stops again, standing a little nearer than he  
had been before.  
  
Buffy takes a moment to remember how to breathe.  
  
~  
  
She's kept track of him over the years. Given their mutual  
friends, it became laughably easy to get all the  
insignificant details of his life.  
  
There hadn't been a need to sneak peeks at his life before.  
Back when they'd been fellow soldiers, after the initial  
pain of their breakup had cooled, if Buffy felt like talking  
to him, she would. She'd pick up the phone, or catch a bus  
to L.A., or write him an email. He'd do the same. They  
weren't friends, but they were there for each other. There  
was healthy respect and love between them, even if fate  
refused to let them be lovers.  
  
Years passed. People died. Buffy's second death, her  
subsequent resurrection, it all took a toll. Dawn,  
especially, took everything hard, and the wounds Glory  
inflicted never completely healed. There was such pain in  
the years that followed the Hell God's attempt on their  
lives, such pain mixed with such near-perfect happiness.  
Buffy had people in her life she knew would never leave, and  
it helped ease a lot of her insecurity. And of course she  
missed Angel, but it wasn't like it had been before. They  
didn't live in each other's worlds any longer, but they  
still sort of orbited each other's systems.  
  
It all changed that day. Angel's redemption, Shanshu; Wesley  
had given them a quick recitation of it while he gathered  
troops to hurry to Angel's side in battle. A vision of  
Cordelia's demanded the Slayer's presence at the side of the  
Vampire with a Soul. Buffy hadn't had a problem with it;  
Angel was fighting for his humanity, and there was no other  
cause she'd believed in half as much her entire life.  
  
Over the years, the memory of the battle, the details of it  
have faded from Buffy's mind. All she can clearly remember  
is Spike's desperate embrace as he begged her not to leave  
them. She had been knocked unconscious; had saved Angel's  
life while he was distracted with trying to protect the girl  
Buffy had quickly realized was his lover.  
  
Things between them weren't serious, Angel and the woman  
whose name Buffy had honestly blocked from her mind. If  
she'd been thinking rationally at the time, she would have  
seen that. The two of them were lovers, but they weren't any  
more in love than she and Spike had been. Angel would have  
lost his soul to a woman he loved.  
  
Later, Spike confessed what he did that night Angel became  
suddenly human. He was ashamed, and that honest emotion was  
enough to earn Buffy's forgiveness, though she could never  
bear to let him touch her again.  
  
He'd gone to Angel, to the man who'd been his Sire for all  
intents and purposes, and lied to his face. Spike had always  
fought dirty for anything he felt was his, and even though  
he'd known he would never be able to possess Buffy, not  
truly as his, he couldn't bear to simply let her go.  
  
And so Angel heard from Spike of the great love in Buffy's  
life; the normal man who didn't have over a century of evil  
staining his soul or his love; someone who had asked her to  
marry him, who she was planning to marry. Unwilling to  
disrupt her happiness, to throw a wrench into the works of  
her life, Angel had done the thing he'd always done --  
whatever was the most self-sacrificing and noble.  
  
This time, he'd come to say goodbye. He hadn't mentioned her  
mythical fiancé, and so she had assumed his reason for  
leaving was the pretty little thing with the big brown eyes  
that looked at him so adoringly.  
  
When he showed up on her doorstep that night, he explained  
that he wanted the best in life for her, and that he wasn't  
the best. He said he didn't want to be in her way. He  
promised that if she ever needed him, if she ever =wanted=  
him, all she had to do was call . . .  
  
Now, of course, she could see all that he'd been offering  
her -- in his mind, she'd belonged to someone else, and he  
had been telling her he still belonged only to her, and all  
she had to do was claim him. Her hurt pride, her childish  
heart, however, had refused to see the emotion behind his  
words, and she'd told him she was fine without him, and that  
she hoped he and whatshername were very happy together.  
  
Funny (not funny ha-ha) how she realized so much after he  
left, after Spike's confession, after it was too late to  
claim him because he'd done just what she told him to do --  
he'd married a woman whose name she couldn't be bothered to  
remember. He'd made a life for himself. A human life, free  
of demons and darkness, if Cordelia via Willow was to be  
believed.  
  
She still hears from Spike occasionally. He writes her  
letters from the road. He's hooked up with a crew of demon  
hunters, he says, and plans to be the Last Demon Standing  
when all is said and done.  
  
The Cleansing had taken care of most of the vampires of the  
world. Angel and Spike had been the only two in Sunnydale to  
survive, Spike because of the magical wards Willow prepared  
for him, and Angel because of his Shanshu.  
  
Now, groups of demon hunters scattered the globe, making war  
on the harmful demons that were left, and letting the  
peaceful ones be. Some vampires, like Spike, switched sides  
and chose to drink pig's blood and fight the good fight. It  
seemed a creature's will to survive even overrode its  
instinctual desires for death and blood.  
  
Buffy still slays, but she stays close to home, and she  
hasn't had to save the world in nearly four years. It's a  
record, and one she takes comfort in.  
  
Sometimes, when she works up the nerve to come to L.A., she  
wants to go down to the Santa Monica Pier and watch Angel  
draw, the way Cordelia says he always does. He has a child,  
a little girl, and he and his wife named her Kathleen  
Elizabeth. He wrote her a very lovely letter ((Had it not  
been for you, Buffy, I wouldn't have survived long enough to  
live.)) that expressed his endless gratitude for the  
significant part she played in setting him on the right  
path. His daughter's name was the living testament to that  
gratitude, and, she admits to herself now, the love he has  
always felt for Buffy.  
  
Angel has a talent ((Soon.)) for charcoals. He renders  
people, places, objects, in perfect detail. His work is  
shown in local galleries around Los Angeles, and the artist  
who signs his work with an 'A', followed by an angel's wing,  
is well loved by those who know him. Buffy has purchased  
several of his works anonymously, and she hangs them in the  
room she uses to write. They bring inspiration to her muse,  
and remind her that once, she knew a great love.  
  
She does not blame herself for his absence from her life any  
longer. She does not blame him, either. There is too much  
evil still left in the world to add to it, and blaming  
either of them for circumstances would be an evil almost  
more insidious than the one they'd fought so hard against.  
  
A year ago, Buffy came to Los Angeles to watch him, the same  
way he'd always watched her: from the shadows. She saw his  
little girl, a tiny dark sprite, tugging at her Daddy's  
shirttail. Her mother, Angel's wife, had been beautiful, and  
Buffy had only stared at them for a moment before she forced  
her weary feet to take her away from him again.  
  
It's nearly a year now since she heard about how sick she  
was. Angel's wife had some kind of disease that was  
incurable, and decidedly supernatural. Her death, Willow  
said, had hit Angel hard. No one knew the details of it;  
Angel's inner sanctum had circled around them during the  
end, and in the last few days of her life, it had only been  
the three of them, mother, father, and child, given the  
opportunity to say a proper goodbye.  
  
Buffy mourned her. Not because she had known her, or because  
she wished she was still alive -- but because Angel mourned  
her. His pain was like a tangible thing to her, and she  
cried herself to sleep for a solid week after his wife's  
passing.  
  
She still did not go to him. She has considered it, of  
course. It just seemed so gothic-romance novel to travel the  
distances that separated them, to 'comfort' him in his hour  
of mourning. What did she expect? Did she think he would  
open his arms ((his heart and his bed)) to her, welcome her  
home and ask her to be his daughter's new mommy?  
  
Even if he were so inclined, that could never happen. The  
little girl ((=Angel's= DAUGHTER)) whom he clearly adored  
didn't know Buffy Summers from a hole in the ground. Her  
mother had just died. Divorce and death were much more  
similar than anyone knew, and as a child of divorce, Buffy  
never wanted to be the person who took the place of  
someone's parent.  
  
That purely rational line of thinking had kept her from  
going to him. Occasionally, she recognizes that, while it is  
a valid reason, it is not the real one. The real, true,  
honest to God reason she does not go to him is the simple  
fear of rejection. The bone-deep terror that he won't want  
her back. Angel loved deeply, and he'd loved another woman  
enough to marry her, to have a child with her . . .  
  
Resigned as she has become to never being with him again, it  
does not stop her from remembering. It does not stop her  
from imagining.  
  
In the stillest part of the night, the time when she once  
would have been outside fighting ((hunting killing stalking  
flirting holding hands and kissing in the cemetery)), she  
now spends lying in bed, thinking of all the things that  
might have ((never could have)) been.  
  
There have been nights she thinks of Riley, but only ever  
for a few beats of her heart ((Angel's heart)) and thoughts  
of him pass through her mind the same way Riley himself had  
through her life -- sweetly, occasionally painfully, without  
really leaving much of an impression either way.  
  
Mostly, these late night musings belong to Angel, like so  
many parts of her do.  
  
She has replayed their love affair a thousand times. She has  
examined ((if only I'd done-if he'd just-maybe if we'd  
have)) each moment carefully. Always, she comes to the same  
conclusion.  
  
They were doomed from the beginning, and she would not  
change a second of it for anything.  
  
Well, maybe she'd change one thing. She'd change the end.  
  
She'd make it so there never was one.  
  
~  
  
"Buffy?" he questions softly. He has not said her name out  
loud in so long, the syllables of it roll off his tongue  
strangely, heatedly, like he's just eaten too much Wasabi.  
  
He eats now, not because he's trying to pretend to fit in  
with the rest of the world, but because he is desperately  
hungry. Fred teases ((teased, she used to tease)) him about  
his voracious appetite. In the beginning, he teased her back  
by saying he was a 'growing boy.' Five years into being  
human and he was no longer able to pretend he wasn't used to  
it.  
  
He is a man now, in every way, and knowing that has given  
him something precious to hold onto inside his own soul.  
  
"I don't know what I was going to say," Buffy confesses  
quietly. She has moved closer to him, and he can't resist  
the pull between them, and now they've both moved and he  
honestly can't remember taking the first step.  
  
"I'm familiar with the feeling," he assures her. How easy it  
would be, to reach out and touch her. How totally  
impossible.  
  
It has been years since he was close enough to be tempted by  
her scent ((peaches and cream)), the remembered feel of her  
skin ((silk and steel)), the way her nose crinkles when  
she's trying to think of something to say.  
  
"Would you like to get a cup of coffee?" she finally asks,  
and he swears, there are tears in her eyes.  
  
"I thought you had a . . ." he gestures at the building, the  
reason they were standing here, trying to string words  
together into complete sentences.  
  
"I did. I do. I don't care."  
  
His eyes widen a little at her honesty, but he nods,  
understanding. "I'm supposed to pick Katie up," he says, and  
he hadn't remembered it until he blurted it out.  
  
"Oh." She shakes her head. "Never mind. It was . . . dumb.  
You know me, don't think first, just jump on in, never mind  
that the pool doesn't have any water in it--"  
  
"Let me make a call," he interrupts softly. The urge to take  
her hand, to calm her the way he has always been able to is  
so strong he makes fists to keep himself from reaching out  
to her.  
  
Katie is with Cordelia on the set. Cordy has a long shoot  
that will last well into the night. He asks Wes to take  
Katie home with him, to let her play with his and Cordelia's  
son. He agrees easily, and Angel turns to Buffy, flashes her  
the best smile he can manage, considering his heart feels  
like it's been through a blender.  
  
He inclines his head to the left. "My car's over here."  
  
With a smile that mirrors his own, she follows him.  
  
~  
  
Your waist and your breasts,  
the doubled purple of your nipples,  
the sockets of your eyes  
that have just flown away,  
your wide fruit mouth,  
your golden tresses, my little tower  
  
~  
  
He reads her books before he goes to sleep at night.  
  
Fred knew; she always knew. It didn't stop her from loving  
him with all her soul, and a day had never passed that  
didn't make Angel wish he could love her back the same way.  
  
Buffy had believed them to be lovers, that last time he set  
foot in Sunnydale. He knew that, and at the time, he'd had  
neither the time, nor the energy to set her straight. After,  
he hadn't seen a point to it.  
  
Shortly before they set out for Sunnydale, Fred had pulled  
him aside and told him a secret ((I'm pregnant and the  
father doesn't want anything to do with me.)) that had  
stunned him. She'd said it so simply, like she was stating a  
fact in one of her equations. But the nervousness had  
lingered in her tone, and he'd put an arm around her,  
promised that they ((Wes, Cordy, Gunn, and Angel, always a  
'we' or an 'us' or a 'they' whenever someone spoke of them  
now)) would take care of her, and the baby.  
  
That's what he'd been doing in Sunnydale -- taking care of  
her and the baby. Buffy's insecurities always led her, and  
then had been no different. Then again, he is not one to  
speak of being led by insecurities, is he?  
  
He wonders, still, what might have been if Spike hadn't come  
to see him that night.  
  
It was good, for awhile. As good as anything could be  
without Buffy in it. Fred, whom he married, because she was  
beautiful and sweet and loved him, and she offered  
everything, herself, her child, a life Angel had craved as  
much as Buffy had always craved normalcy. He had needed her  
a little, too. He needed someone who knew the darkness  
inside of him and didn't fear it. Her ((Their, always  
Their)) daughter is the greatest love he has ever known, and  
she reminds him of his sister in the moments when he allows  
his memory to drift back to the quiet, beautiful girl he  
killed once, centuries ago.  
  
A year into it, Spike entered his life again. The vampire  
got into a drunken brawl one night outside Caritas. Angel  
had been inside, visiting with the Host, and because he  
remembered Spike genuinely helping during the Final Battles,  
Angel had taken him home and given him a room to sleep it  
off in. The next evening, when Spike awoke, he participated  
in his ritual hangover-induced bout of honesty. The  
confession of his untruth years before devastated Angel.  
  
He still remembers, vividly, climbing the stairs to his room  
like a zombie, finding Fred ((his wife)) sleeping  
peacefully. He remembers the tug ((Buffy)) he'd felt at his  
beating heart.  
  
That night, he'd almost left them. He'd almost climbed into  
his convertible and drove balls out to Sunnydale until he  
could close his arms around Buffy's waist, taste and inhale  
her skin until she filled every single one of his senses,  
just as she already filled every inch of his heart to  
bursting.  
  
Instead, he went to his daughter's room, watched her take  
breath after breath as she slept beneath her Strawberry  
Shortcake sheets, an ancient relic Fred had pulled from her  
own attic when they took a trip to see her grandmother. The  
old woman had taken an immediate liking to Angel, and the  
feeling was mutual. This was what Fred had given him;  
connection, not only to the past and present, but also to  
the future. In the end, no matter how much he ached for  
Buffy, it had been unthinkable to him, this idea of leaving  
((abandoning)) all that he'd built over the past years.  
  
Besides, the grapevine from Sunnydale tells him that Buffy  
is well. He reads her books, feels the passion leaping off  
the page at him, and he knows it. Her life is not empty. It  
is filled with family and friends, and he has learned better  
than anyone the importance of family and friends.  
  
Anne Angel is the penname she chose, and with it, Buffy  
spins tales of a young girl who fights vampires, and the  
band of friends who help her. Her heroine falls in love with  
a vampire, and Angel admits to being a bit disconcerted at  
how vivid Buffy's recall of their life clearly is. He  
thought that particular curse was his and his alone to bear.  
  
Her first novel, she dedicated so beautifully ((For little  
Elizabeth, who brings joy to her father)) that he nearly  
picked up the phone to call her -- only the fear that they  
would have nothing to say to one another stopped him.  
  
Angel loves his work. The charcoals he paints were at first  
difficult for him to do, then later, became almost  
cathartic. He is able to take something he had once used to  
perpetuate evil, and turn it into something beautiful. He  
draws everything, the places he's seen, the ones he's only  
imagined, the people he's loved, Katie, Buffy, Cordelia,  
Fred. It is Fred who convinced him he could channel his  
talent ((use it for good, not evil, Angel. Use the force))  
into something positive.  
  
Fred ((his beautiful Winifred)) got sick a year ago. Angel  
still has trouble grasping the idea that she's gone. He  
isn't sure whether he's grateful Katie is too young to  
understand, or angry that she will not have true memories of  
her mother as she grows into a woman. It was not a lingering  
illness, nor was it anything they could seek help for. Her  
time on Pylea had not been as behind her as they'd all  
thought. The Host said it was something humans ((cows)) died  
from on his world, that there was no cure, because his  
people had never deemed it important enough to find one.  
  
He is reminded just how much he did love Fred, how much he  
respected her, how much he =liked= her, when he remembers  
the last months of her life. She did not spend a day feeling  
sorry for herself, or being bitter ((Angel, how can I be sad  
when God gave me you and Katie Beth? I'm only sad that I  
have to leave you long before I'd like)) at the hand she was  
dealt.  
  
His wife's final words to him ((be happy -- be =perfectly=  
happy)) echo through his mind a thousand times a day. He  
takes Katie to the zoo, with him when he paints, to museums  
and restaurants. She tags along with Cordelia to this set  
and that, and they are all as happy as they can be. The loss  
is beginning to fade, as loss does, to the back of their  
minds, and life goes on, as it always does. For the first  
few months after Fred's death, Angel hadn't thought of  
anything but how much he missed her, and how best to care  
for Katie.  
  
Slowly, though, he has been waking up again after a long,  
deep sleep. His heart has once again began to beat and tug  
((Buffy)) with every breath he takes. He is remembering all  
that he carries with him every moment that he lives.  
  
He misses her, still, miles ((worlds)) apart though they  
sometimes are now. He loves her no less; he tries not to no  
less.  
  
And still, he can't stop.  
  
~  
  
The coffee is Starbucks, and Buffy absently notes with a  
pang that Angel purchases a muffin to go with his caffeine.  
It's chocolate chip, and she feels physical pain for how  
much she doesn't know about him.  
  
Angel suggests they take their excuse to remain in each  
other's company to the beach, and they drive with the top  
down until Angel finds the spot ((at sunset, it gets so  
quiet you can hear the earth spin)) he's looking for.  
  
Shoes are kicked off, he rolls up his pant legs, she hikes  
her skirt to her knees, and they settle their feet against  
the sand that will be covered with water in a few hours  
time. Neither question the fact that they intend to be here  
for hours.  
  
They talk of their mutual friends initially, of the dot com  
company Anya, Willow, Cordelia, Tara, and Oz started up  
together, and Angel seems pleased that Cordelia has  
something besides the acting to fall back on. They speak of  
Xander's construction company, Wesley's satisfaction at  
being a stay-at-home-dad, and Giles' pleasure at being home  
in the U.K. once more. He tells her that Gunn and Faith have  
been traveling the country with Spike, taking care of the  
leftover demon population, and she confesses that Spike  
still sends her letters from the road.  
  
He enquires about Dawn, and she tells him her little sister  
is getting married next month. They've been in love since  
high school, and it's the real thing.  
  
"That's amazing," he notes. "Finding the person you want to  
spend your life with so young."  
  
"Must be a Summers thing," she says sadly, and his heart  
lurches in his chest, screaming for him to touch her. He  
isn't sure why he doesn't. Perhaps it's because things are  
so unsettled still. He isn't sure he would survive holding  
her just once, only to have her leave his life all over  
again.  
  
When they have exhausted all forms of idle chatter, the  
quiet that descends over them is disturbed only by the  
gentle sound of the surf beating against the shore.  
  
It is time, it seems, to get to the heart of things, or walk  
away after having coffee like polite ex-lovers are supposed  
to.  
  
He has always had trouble considering them as ex-anything.  
There are no labels for what they are to each other. They  
just are.  
  
And so, Angel tells her everything about his life as the sun  
sinks in the sky, and Buffy listens with a heart bursting  
for how much she has missed him.  
  
He explains about Fred, the girl he'd rescued from another  
dimension, who'd become his dearest friend. He confesses  
that, while he'd never loved her madly, he had loved her in  
a quiet, easy way that had made their marriage a beautiful  
one. Buffy somehow manages to love him more when he  
confesses that the child he dotes on so obsessively is not  
biologically his.  
  
"But she is," he insists. "She's been mine from the moment  
Fred told me about her. I couldn't possibly love her more."  
  
In turn, Buffy shares the tale of the few lovers she's had  
over the years. They've gone in and out of her life with  
much infrequency, and the heart of her joy has been the  
close circle of friends that surround her.  
  
"Buffy and romantic love just doesn't seem to work out," she  
says at last. "They're fine separately -- Romantic love is  
great, and Buffy, I hear, is beyond cool. But put 'em  
together and it's a disaster of epic proportions. Which is  
why I've given a happily ever after to Eliza. Oh, Eliza's  
the heroine--"  
  
"In your books, I know," he assures her softly. He has a far  
away look in his eyes, and she reaches out, tugs at the open  
collar of his white shirt playfully.  
  
"Hey. No day-trips. Catching up requires the full  
participation and presence of both parties."  
  
He gives her a smile, and tries to ignore the fact that her  
fingers are still lightly moving against the open collar of  
his shirt. He is not successful.  
  
"I was just thinking that I can't wait for Katie to meet  
you," he confesses, though he honestly hadn't meant to speak  
that particular thought out loud. Not yet, at any rate, not  
until he knows for certain why she is sitting here in front  
of him still.  
  
"Oh." That is literally the only thought her brain is  
capable of forming. She is not proud of it, especially  
considering her vocation, but she figures she's ahead of the  
game, having been able to form a verbal syllable at all.  
  
"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "It's too much. You wanted  
to spend the afternoon with someone you used to know, not .  
. . I don't know what, but certainly not get too involved  
in--"  
  
"Why is it going to work now, when it didn't work all those  
times before?" she blurts out. "The last time we saw each  
other, you were human, and we still managed to get in the  
way of our own happy ending. How are things different now? I  
can't go into this again, I can't fall back in love with  
you, in love with your =daughter= and then lose you both. I  
wouldn't survive it."  
  
"Neither would I."  
  
She laughs. "So where the hell does that leave us?"  
  
"I could tell you why it's different for me now," he tells  
her quietly.  
  
"Please," she whispers. "Because that thing I said about  
falling back in love with you? I already did that."  
  
He takes her hand, and presses a swift, loving kiss to her  
knuckles, and his words begin muffled against her skin.  
  
"Before, you were my salvation, Buffy. I put you on a  
pedestal and I worshipped you. I never felt worthy of you, I  
certainly never felt I deserved to have your love. The  
difference is . . . I am now. I'm worthy. I feel it in my  
bones, finally and for real. It took me a long time to get  
here -- and I'm not just referring to the pulse. Every time  
I look into Katie's eyes, I feel like the person I am. I can  
come to you now as a man, nothing more, and certainly  
nothing less.  
  
"I don't see you as the savior of the world, although I know  
you are, I don't even see you as my savior, because I found  
redemption amongst the rest of humanity, even though you did  
save me without knowing it all those years ago."  
  
"No more than you saved me," she whispers. She has pulled  
his hand to her own lips as he spoke and there are tears in  
her voice.  
  
"Do you know how I see you?" he asks in a hushed voice.  
  
Buffy looks at his beloved face, noting as she does that the  
sun has set and his features are to her now as they have  
always been in her dreams -- shaded, dark, but glowing  
nonetheless with something that comes from inside of him.  
  
"How?"  
  
"I see you as the only woman I've ever loved with my whole  
heart, and what I want to give to you is myself; flawed,  
alive, and desperately needing to wake with you in my arms  
every single morning."  
  
"Why?" she asks, her voice tinged with wonder, both at his  
words and the fact that she seems incapable of speaking more  
than one word at a time. If it were five years ago, she  
would fear some weird hellmouth disease robbing her of  
speech. Now, she's pretty sure it's just the effect Angel  
has on her.  
  
He smiles gently, the half smirk she hasn't seen from him in  
ages, and he brushes the side of her hair with his warm,  
gentle, =human= touch.  
  
"Maybe I still just like you."  
  
Her control snaps, and she leans in to kiss him, a short,  
hard burst of affection against his lips. She moves to pull  
away, and he holds her head with the back of his hand,  
prolonging the contact, deepening it as they become  
reacquainted with lips and tongues and soft, gentle fingers  
re-learning the dips and plains of smiling faces.  
  
They kiss for nearly an hour, making out like teenagers on  
the beach, and it's everything they both feared it wouldn't  
be again -- passionate, loving, comfortable, scary,  
beautiful, exciting, and about a thousand other things they  
are too full of each other to think of.  
  
Soon, they are rolling around in the sand, trying to get on  
top of each other, inside of each other. Their clothes are  
lost in the struggle, and Buffy takes long, loving mouthfuls  
of his warm, human skin, and tears spill down their cheeks  
as they both realize that the home they've been aching for  
separately all these years is at last within their grasp.  
  
Later, they are spooned together higher in the sand, and  
neither could be bothered with something so trivial as  
clothing. His forearm is across her chest, while his other  
arm is draped over her hips, and she can feel his heart  
beating against her back.  
  
Pressing soft, adoring kisses against the shell of her ear,  
he whispers, "Come home with me."  
  
"For how long?" she asks, because despite the security she  
feels in his arms, the desperate intensity of his embrace,  
she is still insecure at heart.  
  
"To stay," he says with gentle laughter in his voice, as  
though it were the most obvious answer in the world. To him,  
it is. "To stay for always."  
  
"Okay," she agrees happily as tears spill down her cheeks.  
  
He turns her to face him and kisses her tears away. Places  
his lips to the pulse in her neck, over scar tissue he is  
responsible for, and relaxes with the vibration of her life  
echoing that of his own.  
  
"What if Katie doesn't like me?" she asks the top of his  
head.  
  
"Oh, we'll sell her to the circus and run away together to  
the South of France," he replies deadpan.  
  
"Angel!" she chastises, laughing and smacking him on the  
back at the same time.  
  
"No, really, she's very smart. We'd probably get a mint for  
her."  
  
He's kissing her again. "Stop," she insists.  
  
"She's going to love you," he says seriously. "How could she  
not?"  
  
"We have to take this slow," she says firmly.  
  
"You're not sure?" Now his insecurities are doing battle  
with her insecurities for the Insecure Heart of the Year  
award.  
  
"I'm not sure for Katie. Angel, if it were just you and me,  
you couldn't pry me off you with the Jaws of Life."  
  
"Nice mental image," he mutters.  
  
"I won't force myself into her life," she declares quietly.  
A smile quirks her lips. "This is the normal stuff we get to  
deal with now. You get to introduce your new girlfriend to  
your daughter. Sure it's worth all the trouble?"  
  
He pulls her fully into his arms and kisses her for what  
seems like days. When they come up for air ((we both have to  
come up for air!)) he takes her cheeks between his palms and  
looks intensely into her eyes.  
  
"Come home with me," he says again, quietly. "To stay. For  
always. And let the details work themselves out."  
  
There are arguments to be made, things they should discuss  
and analyze and pick apart until she is sure she won't be  
hurt again. But the truth is, she probably will be hurt  
somewhere along the way. Unlike all the times before,  
though, she isn't going to be hurting alone. They aren't  
leaving each other until the Powers decide to take one of  
them out. She can see that promise in his eyes, and she  
feels it in her heart.  
  
And so, she gives him the answer that is her first instinct  
every time he asks her a question.  
  
"Okay," she chirps, giggling softly as the full  
ramifications of it all settles inside her for the first  
time. Angel's taking her home. To stay. For freakin' always.  
  
Thank God for that hot dog on a stick.  
  
~  
  
But I love your feet  
only because they walked  
upon the earth and upon  
the wind and upon the waters  
until they found me  
  
~  
  
Oh, yeah, The End. 


End file.
